Worshipping At The Shrine of Suzanne Somers
If I ever get to meet Suzanne Somers, I may bow down and kiss her on her red-carpet-walking, more expensive than my weekly salary, probably-Italian shoes.
I’ve been spraying myself with estrogen spray pretty much every hour on the hour for the past week or so. I am getting extensively paranoid about the whole blood-clot thing, despite my baby-aspirin routine. Last night I decided to get on the Internet and do some research on menopause and hormones. Everywhere I clicked, there was Suzanne, talking about how awesome her life is and how great she feels. Yeah, yeah, yeah… *Sigh* My life blows in comparison. I get it Suzanne.
I have become obsessed with this smiling, 60-ish woman who looks and feels better than I do and I’m sure-as-hell-not 60 years old.
After prodigious Googling, I had watched essentially every video clip of her available on the Internet, with some old “Three’s Company” clips thrown in to satisfy my nostalgia. God, even then she was perfect wasn’t she. Bitch.
Can’t wait to pick up her books to see what other kind of advice she has and if it might help.